


non te ne andare

by ADreamingSongbird



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (mostly anxiety and depression), Discussion of mental illness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Self-Harm, Supportive Victor Nikiforov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 23:23:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9407447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADreamingSongbird/pseuds/ADreamingSongbird
Summary: “I’m fine,” Yuuri insists, one last time.  He’s not fine.  He’s not fine.Viktor sinks to sit next to him, nothing but concern written all over his face.  “Yuuri, I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me,” he says, reaching for Yuuri’s hands, and—oh.~Recovery is not linear.  For all that he tells himself he has no reason to be sad, Yuuri is not having a good day.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Katsuki Yuuri is a canonically mentally ill character and I love him to bits. 
> 
> Warning for serious discussion of self-harm and depression. I drew upon my own experiences with self harm to help write this and also made myself cry in the process lol

Viktor will be home soon.

Yuuri figures he should probably stop crying soon.  He doesn’t even know _why_ he’s crying, so if Viktor sees him like this, he won’t have a good enough answer to _what happened, what’s wrong_.

Well, he knows what’s wrong as in—his anxiety is bad today, he’s nervous about _everything_ and that turned into worrying about everything, and that turned into thinking he’s _not good enough_ , for _anything_ , and that—

That led to the depressive spiral, and _that_ is why he’s sitting on the corner of their bed sobbing so hard he can’t breathe.  It’s an improvement from sitting around feeling numb, except he still feels numb, but with an extra layer of sad on top.  It’s like the numbness is the bread and it’s slathered with a liberal amount of sadness, if sadness can be likened to Nutella.

He needs to _stop crying_.  If he just bottles this all up, tells Viktor he’s tired, and goes to sleep, he’ll probably be fine in the morning.

Yuuri swallows hard, chokes on another sob, and clamps his hand over his mouth, refusing to gasp it out again.  He gets up, stumbles to the bathroom, and turns the cold water on, splashing it on his face over and over and over until he’s gasping from the chill instead of the tears.  His chest still feels tight and his eyes still burn, but he _won’t cry_ , he is _done_ crying, he’s done!

“Idiot,” he mumbles to himself.  “Nothing’s wrong, you’ve been homesick before…”

And then he blanches, guilt rising up like a tsunami to crash over his head.  _This_ is home.  This is home, now, he needs to telling himself that he’s “homesick” for Hasetsu, he’s been living here with Viktor for almost a year now…

God!  This is worse than Detroit!  At least he didn’t have the conflict of what “home” meant, back then, because his apartment with Phichit was only ever meant to last for their university years, but now?  Now he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, even to himself, only that he’s sad and he doesn’t like it because he shouldn’t be!

He clutches at his head.  “Shut up, shut up, shut _up,_ ” he tells himself, begs the depressive spiral to go away, pleads with the intrusive thoughts to leave him alone.

Perhaps he ought to look into going to therapy again.  Surely there is a therapist around here who speaks English, for when Yuuri’s broken Russian isn’t enough to convey his meanings.  It’s a bitter irony that he can see each step of his fall back into anxiety and depression, can pinpoint the things that led to him feeling this way, can determine mostly which thoughts are irrational or not… but he can’t stop them from making him feel awful.  He’s stuck like this, knowing it’s irrational but feeling it anyway.

“Shut _up!_ ”

A deep breath, ragged and panicked. 

… There’s always …

He’s been _trying_ to break the habit, and it has been months since the last time…

… But god, he doesn’t know what else to do…

He lets his gaze stray to the razor in the cup by the sink.  No—that one’s actually used as it is—but it has spare replacement blades, and that’s what he did last time.

(Somehow it’s always a lot easier to relapse a second time.)

_It’s not a relapse_ , he tells himself.  _This is a one-time thing, because normally I would cry it out but I don’t want to make Viktor upset and worried by having him walk in on me having a breakdown while he was out getting groceries.  Not a relapse._

Of course, that was more or less his logic back when he was trying to hide the scars and the blade he set aside for cutting when he lived with Phichit, too, that it was a one-time thing and not a habit, and—okay, okay, so he doesn’t believe himself and maybe this _is_ a relapse, but…

Another deep, shaky breath.  It’s okay.  It’ll help.  It calms the thoughts.

In a minute or two, he’s going to regret it.  But he doesn’t know that, when he opens the cabinet and takes out one of the razor replacement blades, the same one as he did a few months ago, and carefully rinses it and pats it dry, just to make sure it isn’t dusty.  Then he slides his sleeve up, places the blade on his wrist, and digs it in.

The pain is sharp and immediate.  The blood takes a moment longer, and he has to restrain himself from the thought _there isn’t enough you should cut deeper_ (that’s irrational, that’s intrusive, push it away).

He’s so busy watching the blood pool on his skin with morbid fascination that he doesn’t hear Makkachin bark in the living room as the door opens.

He shakes himself out of it though, blinking, and runs more cold water, washing the blood off and waiting until the water runs clear.  Then he inspects the damage again.  More blood is already starting to ooze out of the cut, bright red and striking against his pale skin, but it really isn’t that bad.  And he feels better for having done it.  His head feels less stuffed full of thoughts.  They’re still there, but they’re more manageable, not at the forefront anymore.

“Yuuri!” Viktor’s voice sings.  “I’m home!”

He regrets it now!

_Shit!_

Panicking, he shuts the water off just as Viktor rounds the corner with a spring in his step, like a jovial hurricane blowing into the bedroom, and sees him standing there in the bathroom, with the door open, face blotchy and eyes wide and petrified.

“I—uh—hi,” he says, holding his wounded arm slightly behind himself.  Wait—the razor is still on the counter!

Hoping it’s inconspicious enough that Viktor won’t notice, Yuuri picks the blade up again, holding it in his hidden hand and offering a nervous smile.

Viktor, of course, doesn’t buy it.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, coming closer, and Yuuri backs away a little, until his wounded wrist and the hand holding the blade are pressed between his body and the bathroom countertop.  Viktor reaches for him, one hand cupping his cheek and the other taking his visible hand (thank god he didn’t reach for both hands, thank god, maybe he won’t notice—)

“N-nothing really,” Yuuri stammers.  “I’m fine.”

“ _Yuuri_ ,” Viktor sighs.  It’s more of a _Yu-uri_ , really, because he splits it like a high and a low, his voice falling flatly.  “Why are you lying to me?  Did something happen?  You look like you’ve been crying.”

“Nothing happened!” Yuuri says, and it’s _true_.  Nothing happened to make him feel this way.  He just does, because he… no, he reminds himself.  Not because he sucks at being a functioning human being, but because he has a mental illness.  That’s why.

“Alright,” Viktor sighs.  “Let’s come out of the bathroom and sit down somewhere more comfortable and talk about it, okay?”

“Th-that’s okay, I think I like standing here,” Yuuri says frantically.  “That is—”

Viktor frowns.  “What are you hiding behind your back?”

“Nothing!” Yuuri squeaks, but it’s too late.  Viktor pulls him forward before he can really try to resist, and spins him around in his arms, catching his wrist and—

_“Yuuri,”_ Viktor breathes.  He lets go of Yuuri’s wrist as though burned, stumbling back in shock.

It takes every ounce bit of self-control that Yuuri possesses to not crumple to the ground right then and there, shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, kind of ridiculously.  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

Viktor takes his arm again, this time making sure his hand doesn’t touch the blood.  “Yuuri,” he repeats, and then he shakes his head, slowly at first, then faster.  “I… you… _Yuuri_ …”

He reaches into the bathroom cabinet, pulls out antiseptic ointment and bandaids.  He doesn’t speak as he carefully cleans the wound again, then puts a bandaid on it—a colorful one, with cartoon characters on it because why would they buy _boring_ bandaids—and Yuuri waits, trembling, terrified, for him to say something.  Anything.

“Come on,” he eventually says.  “Let’s… let’s talk about it.  Please.”

He steps back, taking Yuuri’s other hand, and squeezes it gently as he pulls Yuuri from the bathroom into their bedroom.  They’ve almost made it to the bed when Yuuri’s trembling grows to be too much and his legs give out, and he just sits down hard on the floor instead, wincing when the corner of the razor blade pokes his hand.  His fist is still clenched around it.  Viktor still hasn’t noticed that, maybe.

“Yuuri!”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Yuuri insists, one last time.  He’s not fine.  He’s not fine.

Viktor sinks to sit next to him, nothing but concern written all over his face.  “Yuuri, I can’t help you if you won’t _talk_ to me,” he says, reaching for Yuuri’s hands, and—oh.

When Viktor starts uncurling his fingers from around the razor blade that glints in his palm, Yuuri doesn’t try to stop him.  He’s seen enough already, anyway.  He knows what happened here.

Viktor inhales sharply and takes the blade.

“Yuuri,” he says again.  “Yuuri.  Please.”

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri says, quiet and shaky.  “I know—I’m sure this isn’t—this isn’t what you wanted to see.”

“Why?”

It’s a simple question, and yet the answer eludes both of them.  Why?  It’s a coping mechanism, it makes it bearable.  But why is that?  There’s something—there must be something inherently fucked up if he has to resort to hurting himself to feel like he can breathe, and he doesn’t have an answer to that.

He doesn’t say anything.

Heartbeats pass.  Viktor looks at him helplessly.

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t,” Viktor says, and his eyes are still fixed on the razor blade in his hand, still red along the edge.  “Don’t do it again.  Promise me you won’t, promise me, Yuuri—”

“I _can’t_ ,” Yuuri breathes.  He’s not crying, not yet anyway.  He feels numb, empty, and hollow, like he let his inner demons out with his blood; that’s how it’s always been.  The physical pain distracts from the mental.  Makes it easier to handle, makes it easier to cope.  “Stop—you can’t make—I can’t make that promise, _stop saying that_!”

He pulls away from Viktor’s touch, buries his face in his hands.  Breathes.  His hands are trembling.

The breath leaves Viktor’s lungs with a _whoosh_ as he sits back, defeated, keeping the razor out of Yuuri’s reach.  Like he doesn’t trust him to be safe with it, to not do something reckless and slice too deep and bleed to death.  It stings. 

“What are you saying?” he asks.  “You won’t stop?  You want to do it again?”

“ _Stop_ ,” Yuuri grinds out.  “Stop putting words in my mouth, stop, just, just _stop_ , leave me alone for a little while, please, just—”

“No!”

Yuuri stops.

“No?” he asks.

Viktor stares at him, wide-eyed, uncertain, and afraid.  “I—no.  No, I can’t do that.  I can’t—I won’t leave you alone.  Not like this.”

Breathe, he reminds himself.  In, out.  In, out.

He feels trapped.  Wants to run, wants to jump up and flee and never come back, wants to disappear and vanish and—

But he can’t.  Viktor is between him and the door.  He’d never make it.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, quiet and plaintive.  “Yuuri, please, I—I don’t know what you need from me, but I want—I want to give it to you, just, just please, let me _help_ you, please, Yuuri…”

Guilt hits him like a punch to the gut.  Sneaking off to slice his wrist open quietly didn’t do anything but make Viktor more worried, and can he blame him?  It’s not like Viktor has ever dealt with anything like this before, not like Viktor knows why just saying _don’t do it again_ does more harm than good.  Viktor, despite all his shortcomings and his flaws and his well-intentioned but hurtful words, is _trying_ to help.

The numbness fades under a crashing wave of guilt and self-loathing and _I’m sorry I’m sorry please don’t hate me I put you through so much and I’m sorry_.  He tries to stifle that, though.  He knows Viktor hates hearing him put himself down, too.  He has to keep that inside.

“Yuuri,” Viktor pleads.  “Talk to me.”

“Are—are you angry with me?”

“What?”  There’s genuine surprise in his voice, as if the idea of being angry never even crossed his mind.  “No, no, I’m not angry, solnyshko, of course not.  I—”

He breaks off, and there’s a silence so thick with unsaid words and strangled emotions that one could cut it like a knife through warm butter.  Or, Yuuri supposes, like a sharp razor blade through skin, and the cut on his wrist throbs as if to remind him just what that feels like.

“Can I hold you?” Viktor breathes after a moment.

Yuuri finally looks at him, looks at this man sitting on the bedroom floor with his troubled eyes and his open arms and his loving heart, and feels some of the guilt eating at him subside.  They’ll make it through this.  They always make it through things. 

It feels like he’s lying to himself, but denial is a step better than giving into the dark thoughts, right?

Instead of answering, he slumps sideways, his cheek against Viktor’s collarbone, and curls up between Viktor’s legs, making himself small and unobtrusive.  Viktor tosses the razor away as if he can’t bear to touch it any longer and wraps Yuuri in a tight embrace, tight enough that Yuuri can feel his heart beating a steady _thump-thump, thump-thump_ that reminds him he’s here, he’s real, and he’s not alone.

He all but melts in Viktor’s arms, slowly relaxing as the defensive tension drains away.  Viktor doesn’t say a thing, just holds him like he’s never going to let go, and even without words Yuuri knows he’s waiting to give him the first chance to speak.

Viktor is too good for him.  He is.  It’s a fact.

But somehow, Viktor loves him, and he’ll be damned if he hurts him further by pushing him away.  _He loves me, he loves me, he loves me, shut up_ , he tells the voices of doubt in his mind. 

“Viktor,” he says, out loud.  “I… I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Viktor’s voice is muffled when he responds, his face still buried in Yuuri’s hair. “By that, you mean you didn’t want me to notice?”

“I…”

Caught, Yuuri can do nothing but silently agree.

He tries again.

“I can’t tell you what you want to hear,” he finally says.  “It’s… not easy to just _stop_.  I—I can’t promise I won’t ever hurt myself again.  Trying to just… just quit right now seems…”  Seems like an insurmountable challenge, a dauntingly huge wall in his way, a chasm he cannot leap across.  “Too hard.  It’s too much.”

Viktor nods slightly.  That’s the only indication he gives that he’s heard Yuuri.  From the desperate fierceness of his grip and the protective, upset set of his shoulders, though, Yuuri can tell he’s not happy.

“I’m… do you, um.  Do you know why I did it?” he asks, not sure how much he has to explain.  Not sure how much he feels up to explaining right now.  But at least he feels—he feels _safe_.  There isn’t anywhere he feels more secure than here, in their apartment, in Viktor’s arms, like this.

“Because… you were upset with yourself?” Viktor asks, voice low and unhappy.  “You were—were you… punishing yourself for something?”

“No,” Yuuri tells him.  He shifts in Viktor’s hold, his uninjured arm slowly sliding around and wrapping around Viktor’s waist, rubbing tiny, hesitant circles on his back to soothe him.  “No, that wasn’t it.”

Viktor lets out a quiet little pained sound.  “Then…?”

“It was—it’s a way to…”  Yuuri lets out a soft breath that’s almost a sigh.  “To let out emotions.  It’s like… they stay in my head otherwise.  And I think I’ll drown, or go crazy or _something_ if I keep them bottled up inside, so I just…”

He trails off, somehow unable to say the words _so I just cut myself_ to Viktor.  Viktor, who treats him like something precious, something beautiful, something to be protected.  Viktor, who will undoubtedly flinch upon hearing him finish that sentence.

“Oh,” Viktor breathes, and Yuuri can tell he doesn’t know what to say.

That’s okay.  There is no definitive guide for _How To Care For Your Boyfriend When He Has Really Bad Anxiety And Occasional Depressive Issues_ , no single right answer, no tried-and-true method of dealing with everything.  They’re just figuring it out as they go along.

“So you see,” he continues, “it’s… a coping mechanism.  Not the healthiest, I guess, but… that’s what it is.  So telling me I have to stop without giving me time to find a different way to deal with things when I get overwhelmed is just… scary.  Like an ultimatum, like just one more thing I _should_ be able to do but I _can’t_ because there’s something w-wrong with me and I’m just—”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Viktor contradicts, and though his voice is quiet and husky with emotion, it’s full of intensity that sends a shiver down Yuuri’s spine, pooling in the pit of his stomach.  “You aren’t—you’re not _broken_ , if you were going to call yourself that again.  You’re wonderful, Yuuri, I just don’t know how you don’t see it when you’re _so incredible_ ,” and Yuuri’s heart starts to sink because his damn mind got stuck on _I don’t know how you can’t see it_ instead of the rest of those words, but then Viktor stops.

He lifts his head, tips Yuuri’s chin up, leans in to kiss his forehead.

“It’s not a shortcoming or a reflection on you that you feel this way, or that you don’t see yourself the way I see you,” he murmurs, and Yuuri’s eyes widen, because—because he didn’t say things like that before, always.  He didn’t know that Yuuri needs to hear those words, before, but Yuuri told him and now he’s saying them because he wants to help, and he’s doing his best to be there when Yuuri needs him and _he’s just really, really good_ , and—

“Yuuri?  Yuuri!  Oh, god, did I say something wrong?  Oh, solnyshko, my Yuuri, please don’t cry, I love you—”

Viktor frantically thumbs away the first tear that slips out, anxiously kisses his forehead again, and worriedly looks down at him with wide, apologetic eyes.  Yuuri hugs him tightly, with both arms this time, not caring about his hurt wrist.  After all, it’s his own fault it stings when his sleeve presses against it.

“You didn’t say anything wrong,” he sniffles.  “You—you said something really, really right.”

“Oh,” Viktor breathes, relieved.  “Okay.  Okay.”

They lapse into a soft silence for a few long heartbeats.  Yuuri closes his eyes, tired and numb but not as numb or sad as earlier.  Viktor strokes his hair, cradles him close as they sit on the floor next to their bed, and murmurs something in Russian that Yuuri doesn’t catch.

“Are you… still feeling that way?” he asks after a moment, hesitant, and Yuuri just shakes his head a little bit.

“No,” he mumbles.  “I’m just tired.  And kind of sad.”

Viktor kisses his hair.  “What should I do?”

That.  That question right there.  _What should I do?_   Yuuri thinks he might tear up again just because of—that, that willingness to listen and learn and help him, that’s… such a declaration of love.  And perhaps it’s stupid that he gets emotional over _what should I do_ when Viktor also just told him _I love you_ , but somehow it’s like _what should I do_ is proof, evidence to make him believe it’s true that Viktor loves him.

“Hold me?” he asks quietly.  “Don’t go?”

Viktor chuckles softly.  “Stay close to you?” he asks, and a flicker of a smile tugs at Yuuri’s lips.

“Yeah,” he agrees.  “Something like that.”

“I can do that,” Viktor says.  “I won’t go anywhere.”

For a moment, Yuuri thinks about the razor, somewhere on the floor nearby.  He still has to wash it—it’ll be both sticky from blood _and_ dusty now, possibly with dog hair and lint to boot, and he doesn’t want to risk the next cut getting infected…

(The next cut seems like a certainty.  He doesn’t know how far off it is, when it’ll happen, or why, but to presume that this was the last time seems, well… presumptuous.  Overly optimistic, maybe.)

“If it makes you feel better,” Yuuri mumbles, “I haven’t been sneaking around and doing this behind your back all the time.  It’s… not something I do often.”

Viktor hums softly.  “I see,” he answers, but Yuuri can feel the slight relaxation in his posture—no doubt he was fretting and beating himself up for not noticing sooner.  Another stab of guilt comes.  He didn’t want to make Viktor feel bad.

“I think this was the second time since I moved in with you,” he adds, and Viktor lets out a breath.  He seems disappointed in himself

“So I missed the first?” he asks.  “I’m sorry.  I should have been paying more attention.  Somehow, I didn’t realize—”

“Viktor,” Yuuri sighs.  “Vitya.  It’s not your fault.  I was trying to hide it.  I didn’t want to worry you.  Which—which I realize was stupid of me, because I mean if it was _you_ hiding something upsetting from _me_ I’m sure I’d worry even more, but I mean, I obviously wasn’t thinking clearly from the start, so—”

“Yuuri,” Viktor cuts in gently.  “Can I ask something of you?  I won’t ask you to quit immediately, but—can I ask you to tell me first?  If you feel like hurting yourself, can you tell me instead of going to do it?”

Yuuri hesitates.  “I’d like to say yes,” he says, “but I know sometimes I feel like—like I shouldn’t disturb you, or that you might not want to hear about it because sometimes it seems to me that being upset is all I talk about, or…”

He trails off.  Viktor shakes his head firmly.

“I will always want to hear about anything you want to tell me,” he promises.

“You might need to tell me that a few more times before I believe it,” Yuuri mumbles.  “It’s—it’s not your fault, you haven’t done anything to make me feel otherwise, it’s just—it’s all irrational and it’s in my head, and I just need to hear things too many times…”

“It’s not too many,” Viktor reassures, and Yuuri can feel his lips curve into a tired smile against his forehead.  “Do you think I get tired of telling you I love you?”

“I…”

“Because I can assure you—and I’m sure everyone we know can assure you, too—that I do not.”  It’s gentle teasing, a soft reminder of Yurio’s complaints about _disgusting lovebirds_ and the hearts Viktor comments on every single picture of Yuuri on Phichit’s Instagram.  A little joke.  It’s meant to lighten both of their spirits, to remind Yuuri that he _is_ loved.

“I _know_ ,” Yuuri sighs.  “I know, I know, I know, but I keep doubting myself, always…”

“That has always been your problem, hmm,” Viktor sighs too.  He bows his head, burying his face in Yuuri’s hair as Yuuri nestles his face into his neck, almost limp against him.  “Does hearing me say these things help?”

“It helps,” Yuuri says softly.  “Doesn’t… _fix_ me, but it helps.”

“You don’t need fixing,” Viktor murmurs back.  “My darling, in my eyes, you are perfect just as you are, flaws and all.”

“But—”

Viktor cuts him off with a gentle squeeze.  “Hush,” he says.  “I wasn’t finished.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”  Viktor shifts, lifting his head and setting his chin atop Yuuri’s head, one of his hands coming to slowly stroke his hair.  Yuuri leans into him, presses closer, craving his warmth and his comfort.  “When I said I wanted to marry you,” Viktor says, soft and thoughtful, “I didn’t mean I wanted to pick and choose parts of you.  I don’t _want_ you to fake things and put up shields around me.  I told you I wanted to marry you, and I meant that I wanted to marry _all_ of you.  Insecurities and anxiety and everything.  I don’t only want your good days.  Call me selfish and a hoarder, dearest, but I want _all_ of them.  Okay?”

Oh.

_Oh._

What is he supposed to say to—to _that?_

“Y-you’re not selfish,” and his voice wavers uncertainly, like the tightness in his chest and the prickling in his eyes haven’t met yet to confer with the lump in his throat and decide if he’s going to cry or not yet.  “You’re—you’re too good for me,” and ah, there, the conference is over and the verdict is yes, yes he is crying now.  Hot tears leak from the corners of his eyes and he’s sure Viktor can feel them, wet against his skin until they soak into his shirt.

“You’re too good for _me_ ,” Viktor contradicts, rubbing his back.  “Hush, hush, don’t cry.  It’s okay.  It’s okay.  I’m right here.”

Yuuri sniffles, takes a shaky breath.  “I—I’m—I l-love you, I…”

(It was a conscious effort not to say _I’m sorry_.)

“I love you too,” Viktor says.  “Yuuri, Yuuri…”

Yuuri has always loved the way Viktor says his name.  _Yuuri,_ like a soft caress.  _Yuuri_ , with the _-ri_ more accented than the way his family says it.  _Yuuri_ , like it’s the most precious word in any of the languages they both speak.

“Hey,” Viktor murmurs, pulling back just a little.  “Let’s get off the floor.  Do you want to sleep?”

“No,” Yuuri says immediately.  He’s not tired enough to sleep.  He would just lie there, staring at the ceiling or squeezing his eyes shut, trying to stay still instead of tossing and turning because he’d be afraid of accidentally waking Viktor up.  “Please?”

“We don’t have to sleep now,” Viktor assures him, petting his hair again.  “It was just a suggestion, that’s all.  Can we go sit on the couch?  I think it’d be easier on my old bones than the floor here.”

“You’re twenty-eight,” Yuuri mumbles, feeling a flicker of a smile tug at his lips.

“Old,” Viktor agrees.  He tips Yuuri’s chin up, leans forward and presses their foreheads together.  “So?  Couch?”

“Okay,” Yuuri says.  He reluctantly extricates himself from Viktor’s arms, taking a deep breath and wiping at his face once.  Then he crawls to reach under the nightstand, where Viktor tossed the razor blade.

Viktor inhales sharply.  “Yuuri—”

“I need to wash it,” he says, pulling it out, careful so he doesn’t cut his fingers.  “There’s still blood on it, and dust too.  I don’t want it to get infected, next time.”

He can’t turn around to face Viktor after saying that.  He knows he’ll see a stricken expression, will see distress in those ocean-blue eyes that he loves so much, knows it’s there squarely because of him.

“Let me.”

_What?_

He’s so surprised he looks over his shoulder despite himself, eyes wide.  “Y-you—what?”

Viktor stands with his usual fluid grace, and while his eyes are troubled like Yuuri knew they would be, he also smiles slightly.  It’s a small, tired smile, and it’s not entirely happy, but it’s a smile.  “I said, let me,” he repeats.  “Let me help.  Let me take care of you.”

“You don’t _have_ to,” Yuuri starts, fumbling over his words already, but Viktor just holds out his hand, tentatively.  “I—I can do it, it’s fine…”

“You can,” Viktor agrees. “But I want to be there to help you.  If you will have me.”

The breath leaves Yuuri’s lungs all at once with a whoosh, almost like it’s been knocked out of him.  “I…”

He doesn’t find the words, but he places the blade carefully into Viktor’s waiting fingers.

Viktor smiles at that, though his eyes are suspiciously bright as he leans in and kisses Yuuri’s cheek.  “Thank you,” he murmurs.

Yuuri stands there, frozen, and watches him until he disappears into their bathroom and there’s the sound of running water.  Then he shakes his head, feeling a little numb and dazed again, and goes to sit on the couch, wrapped in a blanket and staring at nothingness.  Or, well, he _would_ sit there and stare at nothingness, except Makkachin wakes from his doze by the oven and ambles over, so he ends up staring at a large poodle who is convinced he never outgrew the size of a lapdog instead.

“You’re _heavy_ ,” he tells Makkachin, unable to keep a smile out of his voice.  Makkachin snuffles something that’s not quite a _woof_ , and his tail thumps against Yuuri’s leg.

Heavy dog or not, it’s… nice.  Makkachin is warm and still drowsy enough not to be excitable, instead just curling up in Yuuri’s lap as best as a dog of his size can, and maybe it’s silly but having that warm, dead weight pressing close to him is grounding.  He feels less detached and numb when he runs his fingers through Makkachin’s curly fur.

When Viktor comes out of the bedroom, immediately calling a “Yuuri, let’s make hot chocolate!”, Yuuri shushes him.

“I can’t,” he whispers urgently. “I can’t move, Viktor.”

“What?!  What do you mean you can’t—”

Viktor stops as soon as he rounds the corner and comes close enough to see Makkachin, asleep in Yuuri’s lap.

“Oh,” he says.  Yuuri has to stifle a laugh at his expression, shifting from worried to relieved to adoring in a heartbeat.  “You’re completely right, no moving for you.”  He drops a quick kiss to the top of Yuuri’s head.  “I’ll make hot chocolate for the both of us, yes?”

“Yes please,” Yuuri says.

“Do you want to put on a movie, too?” Viktor asks, moving toward the kitchen.

Yuuri hesitates.  A distraction might be nice, but what if he ends up wanting to say something but can’t because they’re trying to watch a movie?  “I… don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” Viktor says.  “We can decide to put one on later, if we feel like watching something then.  We don’t _have_ to.”

“Okay,” Yuuri says, stroking Makkachin’s back.  “Okay.”

Viktor puts a pot of milk on the stove to heat and comes back, leaning over Makkachin to kiss Yuuri gently.  He smiles with the same tender look he gave Yuuri after their first kiss, at the Cup of China, and then kisses him again.

“Yuuri,” he murmurs.  “You never did give me a definitive answer, earlier.  Can you please at least _tell_ me, if you feel bad again?”

“I… I’ll try,” Yuuri promises, looking down into his lap.  “You’re—you’re sure you’re not mad at me?  Or, or disappointed?”

“I promise I’m not,” Viktor murmurs.  “I just want to be here for you.  That’s all.”

“Okay,” Yuuri whispers.

Makkachin stirs, and both of them look down as he stretches, yawns, nuzzles Yuuri’s arm, and then goes back to sleep.

Viktor smiles.  It’s not the blinding, dazzling smile he wears in public, in front of cameras—it’s the smaller, sweeter one, the one only the people close to him get to see.  _God_ , he’s beautiful.

“You’re not alone,” he says hesitantly.  “Lots of people love you.  You know that, right?”

“I know,” Yuuri says softly.  “Most days, I don’t doubt it.  Some days are just… bad.”

“Okay.”  Viktor sounds relieved.  “We’ll get through the bad days.”

“I know,” Yuuri repeats.  “I know.”

Viktor’s gaze flickers down, just for a moment, and Yuuri knows he’s looking at his wrist, though he’s pulled his sleeve down and the cut isn’t visible anymore.  It’s on the inside of his wrist too, and from this angle it wouldn’t show, but…  It’s clear enough what Viktor is thinking about.

“Hey,” he says softly.  “Viktor.  It’s… not that big of a deal, okay?  Not the end of the world.  I’m okay.”

Viktor presses his lips together as if he wants to argue, then sighs.  “I think,” he says with a hint of dryness, “you and I have different definitions of okay.”

Yuuri chuckles, just the barest hint of a laugh.  “That might be true.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Viktor asks. “Whatever was on your mind, before I got home?”

It’s Yuuri’s turn to press his lips together, hesitating.  It’s a habit he knows he’s picked up from Viktor.  “Um… maybe.  With hot chocolate.”

Viktor smiles that relieved, genuine smile again.  “Alright,” he says.  “We can do that.”

He kisses Yuuri’s forehead again, then finally straightens and goes back to the kitchen to add the chocolate into the milk.  Yuuri watches him with a little smile, and continues threading his fingers through Makkachin’s fur.

“What?” Viktor asks after a moment.  “You keep looking at me.”

“I like looking at you,” Yuuri says honestly, and Viktor’s eyebrows shoot up.  Then he laughs softly. 

“I like looking at you, too!”

Well, that makes him feel a little warmer inside, too, just like the hugs and the kisses and the _I-love-you_ s and the _what should I do_.  He smiles slightly.  “Keep your eyes on that milk.  It’d be a shame if it boiled over and made a mess everywhere.”

“Ah,” Viktor sighs.  “You are both stunningly beautiful and absolutely correct.  Very well, I will look away.  But only for a minute or so longer.  It’s almost ready!”

Eventually, he comes and sits down on the couch too, a mug in each hand.  The movement makes Makkachin wake up again, and he looks slightly affronted at being pulled out of a nice nap, but then settles back down when it becomes clear that nobody else is moving anymore, and Viktor passes Yuuri his mug, then wraps his arm around his shoulders.

“Thank you,” Yuuri tells him softly.  It’s not just for the hot chocolate.

Viktor favors him with that sweet, tender smile again, leaning over to kiss his cheek.  “You’re welcome,” he says, and Yuuri leans into him again, his head finding Viktor’s shoulder.  Makkachin shifts again at the movement, lifting his head and bumping Yuuri’s arm so that he almost spills his hot chocolate, but luckily he avoids that fiasco, staring at the mug with wide eyes.  He wouldn’t want to spill it on their dog!

Viktor chuckles, and Yuuri relaxes at the sound.  Nothing happened, it’s fine.

“Viktor,” he says, and Viktor looks down at him so tenderly he almost loses his train of thought.  Luckily, it’s very easy to recover with Viktor looking at him like that, because the thing he wanted to say—the very important thing he wanted to say—is just three words.  “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Viktor says warmly.  “Very much.”

They say this to each other all the time.  Still, it seems just as meaningful every time.  Maybe more so, right now.  That’s probably because Yuuri’s head still feels like a jumble of thoughts all whirling together in a storm of messy emotions all running together in a giant blender.  Having Viktor here at his side, pressed close, arm around him, and Makkachin dozing across both of their laps, though… that helps.  There’s a very big difference in an abstract knowledge that he is loved and being able to physically feel the evidence.

“So… do you, ah… want to talk about it?” Viktor asks after a moment, and Yuuri would freeze up, except Viktor’s fingers start stroking through his hair at just that moment, and that manages to break the spell, somehow.

“I, um… can we just sit like this for a moment?” Yuuri asks plaintively. “I’ll tell you, I will, I just… need a minute.”

He wants to gather his thoughts and figure out how to explain things, but he also just wants to be held and comforted.  It feels good.  It makes him feel less bad.

“Of course,” Viktor assures him quickly.  “Take all the time you need.  I’m not going anywhere.”

He’s so good. 

“You’re sure you want to hear… all of it?” asks Yuuri, hesitant.  He sneaks a glance up at Viktor, just a tiny one, really quick, and adds, “I mean… it’s mostly irrational and just… weird emotion stuff, and I know you don’t really, um…”

“Yuuri,” Viktor sighs, and he says it like the two-part _Yu-uri_ again.  “I want to hear it, okay?  I know I’m not—I’m not that good at comforting people, but I _want_ to take care of you, and that involves listening to things that bother you, so yes.  Yes, I want to hear it.”

“Okay,” Yuuri mumbles.  “It’s kind of stupid.”

“False,” Viktor interrupts.  “Try again.”

“Viktor!” he protests.  He was _trying_ to explain things, and it _is_ kind of stupid!

“It’s not stupid.  Go on, try again.  Take it from the top.”  Viktor nods, satisfied with himself, and Yuuri sighs again.

“I—okay.  You… anyway.  It’s just… I don’t know.  I was upset.  And then, um…”

He fumbles his way through an explanation of how he missed his family, and how he was worried about this and that and _everything_ , and how it piled up and up and up until he couldn’t breathe.  He tells Viktor about abruptly falling into that sudden depressive spiral, about clawing his way up the walls of the chasm because _dammit_ he didn’t want to fall, about being helpless to climb back out again.  About crying and feeling helpless and useless and broken.  About the overwhelming emotions in his head, about the storm that wouldn’t leave him alone.

Viktor is silent for a long moment.

Yuuri takes a hesitant sip of his hot chocolate, and finds that after all his talking it’s at a reasonable temperature.  Good, he needs to drink something to push back the tears again.

“Oh, Yuuri,” Viktor finally says, pressing him close.  He sets his mug, partially but not completely empty, precariously on the armrest and then wraps his other arm around Yuuri, too, ignoring Makkachin’s huff of protest for the moment.  “Yuuri, my love, my dearest Yuuri, I am so sorry…”

“What are you saying sorry for?” Yuuri asks, surprised, as he leans into Viktor’s embrace and closes his eyes.  “You’ve—you’ve helped me so much!”

“I’m sorry you felt that way,” Viktor murmurs.  “I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner.  I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you needed me to be.”

“Don’t say that.  I also needed you to be out getting groceries,” Yuuri mumbles.  “We were out of milk.  We couldn’t have had hot chocolate right now, otherwise.”

“Yuuri.”

He stops protesting.  He knows what Viktor is trying to say.  “Sorry.”

Viktor kisses his temple.  “It’s okay.”

Silence falls again, gentle and soft.  Viktor strokes Yuuri’s hair, and Yuuri drinks hot chocolate.  All in all, he feels warm and safe, just like this, right here.  He doesn’t particularly want to move, ever again.

Although the nice thing is, there’s pretty much a guarantee that Viktor will be clingy and comforting all night.  Yuuri won’t feel sad and alone, not when Viktor is clinging to him like a limpet as they both sleep.

…Not that he isn’t going to cling back, of course.

“Did that help?”

“Huh?”  He snaps out of his thoughts, blinking and confused.

Viktor smiles slightly, indulgent and fond, before he repeats himself.  “I asked, did that help?  Telling me all that?  Did it make you feel better?”

Yuuri considers that for a moment, and nods.  “Yeah,” he says.  “I do feel better.  Less… I don’t know.  Um… less cut off, I guess?”

“Less alone,” Viktor suggests softly.

Viktor is well-acquainted with loneliness.  Yuuri knows this.

“Less alone,” he agrees.

Viktor smiles at him.  Yuuri smiles back.  Less alone, he thinks, is nice.  It’s just the two of them, but they’re not alone.  They’re together.


End file.
